Burning Sage
by Sumi-Sprite
Summary: FILL from the RotGKINKmeme. After being sucked back into his hole by his ravenous Nightmares, Pitch is somehow saved by a strange, fiery spirit. As if someone saving the Boogeyman wasn't odd enough, this kid claims to be the Spirit of Halloween! Suspicions arise when the Guardians catch wind of this, and Pitch starts contemplating if he has finally found his place in the world.
1. Chapter 1

**Burning Sage.**

Prologue.

_A/N~ So this is a fill from the RotGKINKmeme on DreamWidth. It's actually been in the process of being filled for quite some time now, but I never posted it here on fanfiction for a few reasons. One, since it's going to be so OC heavy, I didn't think people would give a flip. I have learned from experience that people only ever go for the OCs that hold VERY good structure, personality, and overall a well-rounded character profile build. For two, I also didn't post it here cause…well, I honestly didn't think many people would give a crap about such a story, and plus, it would be one of my few Canon Character/OC slash fics. That being said, I know people are VERY picky on OC/canon pairings. I actually have little to no love for the concept, and yet I write it one out of every one hundred times in a blue moon. I actually only got into this because one, it was a prompt written by the lovely anon, Plush, (see prompt link in profile!) and two, Hal seems to be my most popular OC – and I haven't even drawn him up yet! _

_But anyways, all that out on the table, I figured I might as well give it a shot. I was actually going to post this during Halloween but…I chickened out. But! I have been kind of dormant lately, and I figured this would provide my readers a nice distraction. And if I have failed at that…well, can't say I'm surprised._

_And so I ask any readers interested in this fic to tell me if this at all seems like something worth reading. And be honest please! I'm rather anal when it comes to archive space – despite there being, as far as I know, no limit to how many fics one can post here. But I don't like wasting other's time, or spamming updates. So please tell me if this is something you all would look forward to seeing an update from! Thanks!_

_**WARNING!**__ For MAJOR OC interactions and OC major role casting. Don't like OCs, don't read. _

_Enjoy!_

Rating: T (for swearing)

Genre: Humor, friendship, romance, hurt/comfort, angst.

Characters: Guardians (all), Pitch, Hal (OC, major), other OCs (minor).

~S~

**X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X**

Do not fall asleep.

This was Pitch's number one rule as of now. It was what he now had to live by, his only real means of survival. One would think his methods were overly dramatic, if not exaggerated. But this was not the case – if your body, your very _soul_ was being used as a feeding source for ravenous beasts you once held on a leash, you would be quite frightened too.

It was this fear, ironically, that kept those dozens of burning amber eyes trained on him wherever he went in his home.

'_I'm being stalked like a mouse in my own home…'_ the thought caused a tired, mirthless chuckle to leave Pitch's lips. Oh how the mighty have fallen…

The Boogeyman was practically a literal shadow of his former self. His energy had been sapped by not only his defeat, but by the ravenous Nightmares prowling his abyssal caverns. His cloak was in tatters, and the bottom half was fading into the floor – he looked like a fading ghost. And at any other time and circumstance, he would have taken a moment to appreciate how eerie the look was. But as it stands, the appearance was not something to croon over; it was something to be fearful and worried about.

His anxieties only seemed to increase the Nightmare's agitation. But they thankfully (or unthankfully) could not do anything until Pitch was asleep. And he had stayed awake ever since his defeat against the Guardians…

_Five years ago._

By nature, Pitch – and various other spirits – did not necessarily require sleep. However, should a spirit be significantly weakened or injured, sleep was the best method to recharge the batteries and help the healing process speed up. The longest a spirit can go without rest when injured is around three to four years. And yet Pitch will be pushing on six in a couple months. And like with humans, lack of sleep can be dangerous and hazardous. Pitch was already a bit of an insomniac, but he pinned that up to his own stresses and stubbornness to forsake something 'trivial'.

But this all didn't seem to really register to him when he woke up being _eaten_ by his Nightmares. After they had dragged him back into his lair kicking and screaming, he had been leeched to the point of passing out. And when he regained consciousness, the Nightmares backed off, but still fed off of the fear he radiated like filter-feeding bottom dwellers. They generally left him alone, but whenever he showed even the scantest bit of weakness, they'd swarm him with stomping hooves and gnashing teeth. Pitch learned to keep his guard up and to never relax from then on. He couldn't escape either – the hole to his lair was sealed with a thick layer of dirt and Nightmare residue, and he was too weak to use the shadows for transportation.

But it was all starting to catch up to him. The Boogeyman was _exhausted_. His knees were stiff, yet they felt like overcooked noodles. Everything ached, and his bones would grind and creak with each move he made. His own damn skin and organs felt like deadweight! He had long since lost his ability to walk, and he had been confined to his throne for the better part of a month. Normally he'd be congratulating himself on surviving and making it this long, but right now, he was even too tired to gloat.

'_Just stay awake, just a bit longer…'_ he thought wearily, _'The seal will weaken over time, and then you can escape, feed on fear, and then tame those wretched beasts.'_

Shuddering, Pitch's heavy head dropped into his folded arms, of which were resting on one of the armrests of a stone chair reminisce of a throne. He felt like a newborn deer, and was likely just as powerful as one. He was cold and tired, he only wanted to sleep. But no, he couldn't. Never again, he didn't want to have dark dreams like the ones his Nightmares brought him. _Never again!_

No, never again. Those dreams of inky darkness and silence, touches and voices just out of reach. And if he did reach out to those vague silhouettes, they would only scorn him. Memories and nightmares went hand in hand, and his memories were certainly their own form of reality turned nightmare.

_Weak! _

_Ugly._

_No one likes you!_

_You're the Boogeyman! Why would I want to be anywhere near you?_

_Go on back to your hellhole._

_You disgust me! _

_Hateful._

_Wretched._

_Unwanted._

_Loveless._

_Heartless._

_Hate._

_Hate. Hate. Hate. HATE. __**HATE**__. __**HATE!**_

Liquid fear cascaded down gaunt, hollow cheeks from tightly shut eyes. Sharp teeth grit and ground into his tongue until it bled that same inky essence. But still, not even the physical pain could draw his mind out of his waking-nightmare. The Nightmares reveled in the anxiety and insecurities. The sand spirits and lowly Fearlings drank up his tears like parched prodigals in a desert. The well may run dry soon, but that didn't matter – as long as they got their fill, not even they would miss Pitch Black.

_**Not even your own creations like you. **_

_**Poor, poor Pitch. So alone, so neglected, so delicious…!**_

_**Not even that upstart frost sprite would hear your pleas!**_

_**Hahaha! The Boogeyman! Begging for companionship! How lowly you are.**_

_**Never seen, never touched, never loved.**_

_**You are loveless! There is only hate offered up to you.**_

_**The King of Hatred and Loathing!**_

_**All hail the king!**_

_**All hail the king!**_

_**All hail the-**_

The Boogeyman's hearing was suddenly assaulted by loud shrieks. He was too distressed, too tired, and too disoriented to figure out where it was coming from and why he was hearing it. His ears had long since been reduced to questionable qualities as his hearing faded and heightened with his lack of sleep and healing. He was probably imagining things again, or the Nightmares had made him fall asleep again. He didn't care anymore. It hurt too much to care…

His blurry vision was covered in darkness as his eyelids slid shut. But the muffled screaming continued. What was that? Why was there screaming? Were the dream apparitions screaming in his presence? No, that would have been a good dream. He couldn't see anything either. And…there was a smell now…

That smell…like crisp fall air, and carrying the scent of dried leaves. He could smell pumpkin spice and cinnamon, as well as burning wood. It was dry and smoky, yet spicy and warm. Like a walk out in an autumn cloaked forest, or a bonfire of a fall feast. The smell was stronger now, and the cries were getting fewer and fewer. And there was…a light?

Dull gold eyes barely withheld the strength to open just the slightest bit, but not even a moment before snapping shut again. Light…it was orange, yellow, and red. It was warm and blazing. Like fire. _Fire…_

'_There's a fire in my lair…'_ he thought impassively. Well that's a shame, but at least it was warm. Maybe it could burn away his loneliness and heartache. Yes, that would be nice…

The dull orange glow suddenly vanished from the other side of his eyelids. It was silent as death now. No Nightmares, no Fearlings whispering his deepest insecurities and fears, no screaming, no crackling of fire, _nothing_.

Pitch felt the slow press isolation starting to push into his body and mind. It was so cold now, there was literally no one with him now. The Nightmares and Fearlings may have tortured him, but they were at least there – they at least acknowledged him! But they aren't now, they're not here, he couldn't feel them. He was completely _alone_ now…!

'_No…no, I don't want to be trapped here like this…!'_ he thought, his entire body shaking with cold and fright.

But suddenly, a patch of warmth. A large, slow heat was pressed against his cheek, almost engulfing the side of his head. It was so warm, yet dense like leather. Leather…yes, it felt like leather – _a hand._

A less stronger heat washed over him, like sunlight peeking in through a window. He felt himself being shifted and moved from his cold, stone throne, and his eyelids fluttered weakly.

Cat-like eyes of orange, yellow, and white greeted his teetering vision. The slits contorted in the dark, the owner of the eyes cloaked in the blackness. But Pitch didn't care – those eyes were the first colors he's seen in over five years, and they seemed to glow like gentle candle flames. Pitch vaguely commented in the back of his head that they looked like swirled candy-corn.

They were the last things he saw before he was hauled up and into a burning hot embrace. Even as he once again fell into the forsaken darkness of unconsciousness, he weakly noted the sweet smell of burning wood and spices…

To be continued…

**X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X**

_A/N~ Well, you made it to the bottom and past the first chapter! And if you feel like it's worth reading the other chapters, by all means, go for it and tell me what you think! _

_Also, I think my other reason for posting here was because EDITING OPPORTUNITY YES. I mean, oh my god, I must have been drugged when I wrote and posted this first chapter on DreamWidth. All those errors and misspells…I wanted to tear my hair out. So yay for editing! The eyesores are gone!...I think. *scans fic again* can always find SOMETHING wrong…_

_Much love and Happy New Years!_

_~S~_


	2. Chapter 2

**Burning Sage.**

Ch. 1

_A/N~ Geez, I think this is the first time I've post a story in bulk…so…yeah. *crickets* STFU…_

_Enjoy! And once again, give me input! *gnashes teeth* _

_**WARNING!**__ For MAJOR OC interactions and OC major role casting. Don't like OCs, don't read. _

_Enjoy!_

Rating: T (for swearing)

Genre: Humor, friendship, romance, hurt/comfort, angst.

Characters: Guardians (all), Pitch, Hal (OC, major), other OCs (minor).

~S~

**X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X**

Pitch never was one known to ever have a 'fit' sleep. Nine out of ten times, his sleep is plagued by Nightmares – the one exceptional time being when he's literally knocked unconscious by a certain Sandman and given a rather odd dream about butterflies. Most other times, he's knocked out by either overly zealous Fearlings looking for a quick bite, or on the occasion he's pissed off another spirit for some reason or another, or a Guardian. And each time, he wakes up in writhing agony from the mental and physical assaults, and all too real nightmares. He wasn't sure which was worse in either of those cases in all honesty.

But _this_, this would be his first time waking up _naturally_. No screaming himself awake from a nightmare, no piercing pain in his body from phantom wounds, no fear, no tears, _nothing_.

It was…quite unsettling, if he was honest with himself. This was a great norm to many after all, and any semblance of 'normalcy' in the Boogeyman's life usually prompted a few red flags. But then again…

'_When was the last time I woke up feeling so warm?'_ he had to blearily wonder.

And he really was warm. There was something thick and comfortingly heavy draped over his body – a blanket he could only guess. It certainly couldn't be one of his; his blankets were torn, thin, and dusty things that couldn't warm an insect. Then again, the cold never really bothered him up until recently – his decline in power apparently also meant a decline in his own natural immunities. And this soft, yet firmly supportive thing he was laying on…a bed? Since when did he have a _bed?_ And why wasn't he _under_ it? The few times he has tried to sleep on an actual bed, he always woke up under it. Was he really so exhausted that his body wasn't even willing to unconsciously insult itself? That was a first.

And that _smell_…

'_Where have I smelled this before…?'_ that soothing, yet spicy scent of pumpkin spice and autumn air. Of burning wood and fragrant cinnamon…

And something else…another smell. What was that? It smelt like…_brimstone?_

_Hrff…_

"Mm…?" Pitch's eyes wearily opened just the slightest bit.

Blackness greeted him, and he wondered briefly if his eyes were still closed, or his lair had just gotten darker. He blinked when two glowing points of red greeted him suddenly, blinking in and out of his vision like eyes. Eyes…and that stink…

"Hrff…" Pitch's eyes snapped open wide as the lines and shapes in the supposed 'darkness' became clear.

The rather large black dog's face was far too close for comfort. Its haunting red eyes seemed to burn holes into his own irises, and the paws planted on either side of his head were smoking and burning through the blanket. Fangs the size of his thumb peeked out of its large muzzle, and the stink of burning sulfur became more potent as it huffed into his face.

It was a _really_ big dog…

"Oh…my…" A large grey tongue fell out of the dog's mouth, and it licked Pitch full across the face.

It just licked him.

A huge-ass dog just _licked_ Pitch Black.

Well now, there was only one thing to do now that the Boogeyman has been sloppily licked by a mangy mutt…

Pitch flew off the proverbial handle.

"WHAT THE MOON DAMNED _HELL!?_" he all but shrieked at an octave a man such as himself should have _never_ been able to reach.

"Shuck!"*

Pitch froze up at the boyishly low voice that greeted his ears. He at first thought it was Frost, but after mentally re-checking the tone, it wasn't even close.

"Bad dog! Off!"

The black behemoth of a canine whimpered and lumbered off the bed, its oversized paws creating an audible 'fwump' against what sounded like a wooden floor. With his vision no longer obscured by the beast, Pitch was able to see who had firmly commanded the dog off of his person.

He had to do not a double-take, but a triple-take of the voice's owner.

The first thing Pitch took note of was the spirit's hair – his hair was a ripe pumpkin orange, streaked with blond stripes with a few red highlights here and there. It was tied back in a tight ponytail, the tail itself wild and thick – almost like a still flame. His skin was an ivory white, the lips and eye-lines the only contrast in their black color. His pointed, elf-like ears were as white as his skin and pierced in various places with studs, a couple hoops, and a cuff and stud-chain combo – all of them gold. The spirit wore a black quad-tailed waistcoat with gold embroidery and details, a frilled black bow and mantle around his neck, and an orange button up shirt. His pants – shorts – were surprisingly similar to Frost's. They were knee-high, and seemed to be made of a supple black leather and boasted gold leather cords crossing in an X-pattern down the outer thighs, a few chains handing from the belt-loops. The rest of his legs were clad in black and white stripped stockings, and his feet donned in bright red, clunky shoes – they seemed to clash with the rest of the spirit's outfit.* Finally, Pitch noted the spirit's black hat – a witch's hat – complete with a jack-o-lantern buckle.

Metallic irises suddenly locked onto the spirit's hands; or so Pitch assumed they were his hands. He wore clawed black leather gloves, all of which were completely out of proportion with the wearer's body. They looked like they could match the size of Pitch's head when clenched in a fist! The silver tray with what he assumed was tea and a few snacks was certainly an oddity within the oversized palms – in fact, it was just plain _weird_ to look at.

And those eyes…

'_Where have I seen those eyes before…?'_ Pitch swallowed tightly around the lump in his dry throat, the skin around his chest tightening with each startled gasp he dragged into his withered lungs.

"Wha…?" did that seriously just come out of his mouth? How eloquent…

The monstrous dog that once loomed over Pitch whined and shuffled to the other spirits' side. And now that he was able to see it by comparison to another person, Pitch could conclude that the dog was a _behemoth_ – that or the other spirit was just short. He was no dog expert, but he could confidently say it looked like a mix between a Bull Mastiff and an Irish Wolf-hound – it was all bunk and muscle, but had a scruffy mane and thick matt of fur on its back and tail. It was _huge_, its shoulders reaching the bottom of the other spirit's chest. And Pitch could say, without a doubt, that the dog was no ordinary mortal dog.*

The spirit shook his head and sighed at the strange dog.

"Honestly Shuck, I told you to behave when I asked you to watch over our guest." He scolded.

"What…?" Pitch rasped quietly.

The spirit seemed to realize Pitch was still there and locked his wide, candy-corn eyes on the shade. Pitch cocked a brow, and vaguely noted that his eyes seemed a little too big on his head, and were only made more odd by the visibly contorting cat-like pupils. And his face was…not so much as oddly formed, but it was almost _too perfect_. The Boogeyman was instantly reminded of a china doll – a very odd if not confusing contrast now that he thought about it, especially when directed towards a male. He must have hit his head at some point during his unconsciousness.

"Oh, sorry," the spirit offered with a meek smile, "Shuck here's just a bit excited. He's always curious about new people."

The Boogeyman found his head go absolutely blank by the remark. He wasn't sure if it was because of the nonchalant tone it was said in, or the fact that this strange spirit was acting like they were old time friends. It was quite off-putting how…unperturbed this stranger was acting towards Pitch. He was too used to others either scowling or ignoring him, or even cowering in fear of him.

Pitch then seemed to remember that he had been acknowledged, and his host(?) was expecting some kind of response from him if that little head tilt of his was anything to go by. Pitch did not know what he was supposed to say though – he wasn't great with conversations after all, especially if he wasn't the one controlling the conversation. So he said the first thing that came to his head when he first saw the spirit.

"Sa…Samhain…?" he rasped. And it finally seemed to click.

_That's_ what was so familiar about the spirit! His eyes, they were spitting images of Samhain's eyes! Moon, it's been so long, Pitch was amazed at himself for forgetting such eyes. And for forgetting such a dangerous person, too. He still got chills from the night the two last saw one another…

The spirit blinked slowly, much like a cat did when it was staring at something uninteresting. But instead of seeming annoyed, the spirit seemed more stunned by the mention of the name. But then again, how would he know about Samhain? He's been dead for over five-hundred years now – this spirit couldn't know about him. Unless the kid has been in hiding all this time, of which Pitch seriously doubted.

Pitch flinched minutely when the red-head shuffled forward and placed the silver tray on a bedside table. His ashen fingers gripped the plush sheets draped over his legs as he watched the other straighten and step a respectable distance away from the bed. The smaller spirit faced Pitch then and calmly clasped his oversized hands together against his abdomen.

"So you did know Samhain?" he asked softly, almost pleadingly.

Pitch frowned at the other, the gears in his head turning at a maddening speed as he tried to figure out just what was going on, and what this spirit wanted. Obviously this person had gotten him away from his Nightmares and Fearlings – perhaps now he was expecting some kind of debt, perhaps a favor on his part. But like hell Pitch was in any position to offer the kid anything. His powers were practically gone now, he was too weak and tired and-

'_Wait…'_ Pitch's eyes widened slightly as he mentally focused on his body.

He…wasn't as tired as he used to be. Yes, he was a bit drained, achy, and no doubt had a few injuries, but he wasn't _in pain_. He didn't feel like he was about to keel over at any moment, and that sickening feeling that use to reside in his gut was all but gone, reduced to but a small ache. And his wounds…

Pitch looked down at his body to inspect the damage done by his Nightmares and Fearlings.

And caught sight of his completely bare torso.

A rush of blood shot into Pitch's face at this, turning his cheeks and ears a dark purple.

"What the bloody hell!?" he snapped, yanking the sheets up to his chest like a modest woman, "What did you do with my clothes!?"

"Your-? Oh!" The spirit jerked back as if stung, suddenly meek, "S-sorry, I forgot about that. I had to see to your injuries and, well…your cloak wasn't exactly in the best of shape. I had it removed and sent to the spiders. Though I doubt they can fix it…"

His injuries? _Spiders?_ What the actual _hell_ was going on? _Who_ was this person? And _how dare_ this stranger _undress_ him while he was _asleep!?_

The other, seemingly sensing Pitch's frustration and seeing him becoming quite flustered, quickly held up his clawed hands in what was supposedly a calming gesture. But with those hands, it more or less looked like he was getting ready to tear into someone's torso.

"Please, listen," he started calmly, "I know this is…a lot to take in, for lack of better terms. But please, you need rest. I promise, once you're fixed up, fed, and your clothes are done being made, I'll explain everything, alright?"

Fixed up? Fed? Clothes being _made?_ What _is_ this? Did the spirit realm suddenly take up some kind of grossly exaggerated parody of one of those live prank shows the humans were so fond of? Was that it? Was this some kind of bad prank?

Pitch fixed the other with a wide eyed, absolutely disbelieving look.

"Who _are_ you?" he rasped.

The spirit blinked before he made a startled sound and turned his head away, his cheeks tinting orange. Pitch stared in near fascination at the odd color change, not unlike his own embarrassing anomaly. How odd…

"I'm so sorry, how rude of me!" Swiftly, the spirit reached up and removed his hat respectfully. Placing a hand over his left breast, he gave Pitch a bow and grinned over at him as he straightened.

"My name is Halistair Owens, or Hal O. Ween,"* he said brightly, "I'm the current Halloween spirit, and the Monarch of Monsters. It is an honor to meet you, Master Boogeyman."

To be continued…

**X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X**

_A/N~ Just to keep in mind, the Hal in this fic has different origins than in Solitude and Darkness. In fact, in SaD, his origin, which will be revealed in the fic, would be considered canon for him. While here, it is altered for the story. So yeah, just to keep that in mind for future chapters. _

_- Shuck here is actually my minor OC based off of The Black Shuck, a demonic dog of European lore said to inhabit graveyards and cemeteries. It is said that if you see the Black Shuck three times, you will die. Signs of his presence being near include the smell of burning brimstone, and burn marks on the ground near or on graves._

_- Red shoes, black and white striped socks. This should sound familiar if you have watched the original Wizard of Oz. Considering Hal is supposed to resemble a witch._

_- Black Shuck is more often than not described as a large black dog. But no one knows just EXACTLY what kind of dog he looks like. Many witnesses describe him to look like a Rottweiler, a Doberman, a black lab, St. Bernard, etc. But it's almost always as some large kind of black dog. Here, he looks like the Chimera-Nina from Full Metal Alchemist, but black and slightly larger._

_- Hal's full and real name is Halistair (Hal-eh-star or Hal-eh-stir) Owens. His other name, Hal O. Ween is just a suede name and one of his titles. Halistair Owens is also his human name._

~S~


	3. Chapter 3

**Burning Sage.**

Ch. 2

_A/N~ Oh yeah, I should probably now mention that pretty much little to NO Bookverse elements will be used in this fic – aside from mentions of the Dark Ages, though that's just a reference to when Pitch had a, 'higher seat' in the spirit chain, so to speak. So characters like Mother Nature and such will not be mentioned or given here through the fic itself. Just throwing that out there._

_**WARNING!**__ For MAJOR OC interactions and OC major role casting. Don't like OCs, don't read. _

_**EDIT:**__ Thank you __**Takeno**__ for correcting my German flops! You rock!_

_Enjoy!_

Rating: T (for swearing)

Genre: Humor, friendship, romance, hurt/comfort, angst.

Characters: Guardians (all), Pitch, Hal (OC, major), other OCs (minor).

~S~

**X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X**

The Boogeyman, former Nightmare King, and the bane of the Guardians' existence, was rarely ever surprised.

Granted, there are the few occasions where he has to do a double-take, or will raise nonexistence brows at something in interest. But overall, he wasn't easily surprised or stunned. He's lived WAY too long to be easily flabbergasted – he's seen too much, and quite frankly, he's become desensitized to surprising antics. Watching or working with humans does that to a person over time, and when you are the embodiment of fear, life becomes quite monotone once you've seen every method a human uses to try and shock a crowd.

This being said, Pitch could now go find himself a calendar and mark this day as being the first surprise he's had since his last one, as of two-hundred and sixty-two years ago.

But, his shock was quick to give way to utter disbelief, and he openly scowled at the other.

"Oh, you're good," he sneered, "For a second there, I almost believed you."

The spirit, Halistair, quirked a brow at the other in what Pitch could only deduce as indignation. But he gave no other outward sign of being insulted or upset. If anything, he was just a bit taken aback by Pitch's assumption.

Halistair gave Pitch a weary smile and set his hat aside on the table by the tray.

"I'm not surprised you don't believe me," he said carefully, "I haven't exactly been very social these past few years. I've only interacted with maybe three or four other spirits during my life after all."

Again, Pitch just _has_ to wonder who this spirit thinks he is. He claimed himself to be the current Halloween spirit, when the holiday itself has been without a herald for nearly a thousand years! It only really began to be considered a holiday tradition in the mid-15th century. Yet this spirit – this _kid_ – claims to have only met a handful of spirits. Granted Pitch was no social butterfly, but almost everyone knew about him, and he knew about everyone – shadows were the ultimate gossip tool when keeping tabs. They told him things he needed to know, and kept him up to date with the current events of both the mortal and immortal realm. And in all his time, he has never so much as heard of anyone laying claim to Halloween!*

It's not like anyone _wanted_ the position either. The whole fiasco with Samhain all those centuries ago was a major turn off to those with the qualifications, and Samhain never appointed a successor. Or so that's how the rumor went.

But Pitch had spent the most time with Samhain when he was around, both before and after the other lost his mind. And he had never met an apprentice, and Samhain had never mentioned one.

Yet this boy was claiming he ran Halloween?

_Bullshit_.

"You do not believe me." It was a statement, and a firm one at that.

"Not even for a second," Pitch deadpanned, "Though I do feel I must applaud you for the performance, and the atmosphere. Did Harlequin* put you up to this?"

"Who?" was the convincingly bewildered inquiry.

Pitch scoffed, "Alright, I'll play along," he said, "Harlequin Aprils. The April Fool, prankster extraordinaire, the guy who has absolutely _no sense_ of fashion or color-coordination."

Halistair only withheld a lost expression on his ivory face. Hm, very good acting, Pitch thought. He honestly did look as if he knew nothing of the infamous jester. Well, he thought, he supposed he could play along a little longer. Maybe he could see how long it would take for the other to 'break character'.

"You know, the grinning and giggling little pain in the ass jester that enjoys throwing around Laughing-Gas juggling-balls?" he tried with a grand sweep of his hands.

Again, only a slightly bewildered, if not fascinated, look came over Halistair's face. He seemed like he was taking in the description like a sponge would water. Pitch frowned at this. Either this kid's acting skills were _extraordinarily_ surpassing his own, or he really didn't know who Harlequin was.

"…he commands a horde of hyenas?"* He offered, now somewhat disturbed by the lost expression the other wore.

After a slight pause, Halistair slowly shook his head. He seemed to find something quite interesting on the floor and fiddled with his fingers.

"Um, I'm sorry, but I do not know of this…Harlequin?" he pronounced carefully, as if trying to commit the name to memory, "I mean, I know of April Fool's day, but I never knew it had a herald."

Now it was Pitch's turn to seem bewildered. Was this kid serious? If he really was the spirit of Halloween, he _had_ to know about Harlequin! Numerous pranks and idiotic antics happened on Halloween, it was practically Harlequin's part-time job to be his usual pain in the ass self around October. And yet Halistair had no clue as to who he was?

If this was a prank, it was a grossly elaborate one – and Harlequin was never one for patience or slow-burn pranks. This didn't fit his criteria.

The dog – Shuck, Pitch thought his name was – whined and looked up at Halistair. The other flicked his gaze over to the large dog briefly before he cleared his throat politely and brushed away some imaginary lint from his waistcoat.

"Um, well, obviously there is a bit of…confusion on both our parts," he started, uncertain, "How about this? Once your clothes are done and you're properly settled in, we can discuss things over lunch? I'll answer any questions you have about me, and maybe we can settle things."

…and now he was, again, implying taking care of the Boogeyman and unnecessary food. What was this kid playing at? You don't offer the Boogeyman _anything!_ He wasn't supposed to be kind, or polite, or hospitable towards Pitch. He was supposed to hate his guts, tell him how awful he was, ignore him, sneer at him, spit at him, _something!_ Just…just not _this!_

'_I don't…I don't understand…!'_ Pitch felt his chest heaving slightly from a mild case of hyperventilation. Whether it was from his own nerves getting out of hand, or he was so confused it was making him anxious, he could not tell.

Halistair seemed to pick up on his rising anxiety, and stepped a respectable distance away from Pitch to give him space. He meticulously reached over to collect his hat, and gave Pitch a meek smile.

"I'm sorry, I'm not really helping as much as I want to, am I?" he chortled ruefully, "I'll leave you be now. Lunch will be served in an hour, and your clothes should be done before then."

Placing his hat back on his head, Halistair snapped his fingers and pointed to the door on the other side of the room. Shuck dutifully got up and lumbered towards it with Halistair in tow. The spirit suddenly paused from touching the doorknob and looked back over at Pitch.

"Oh, and please, help yourself to the tea and snacks," he pointed a clawed finger to the tray by the Boogeyman's bedside, "I'll send someone up to bring you your clothes and check on you later. If you need anything, just tell one of the wisps."

'_The what…?'_ Pitch frowned when the other gestured to one of the many candles on the mantle of a fireplace to his left. The wax mess that sat perched eerily on the mantle was alive with various flames – all of them blue.*

Pitch startled when one of the flames made a strange ghostly sound, then _turned around_ and _looked_ at Pitch with glowing yellow eyes. A crescent shape broke out below its hollow eyes – it was _smiling_ at him. A _flame_ was _smiling_ at him…

'_A…a Wil-o-wisp…'_ Pitch thought dumbly, before he seemed to go limp in exhaustion, _'Oh I am SO done with all this…'_

"They'll tell me or one of the servants if you need anything," Halistair continued, "Just make yourself at home, and we'll settle things later. I'll see you in an hour."

The spirit made to leave as he opened the door leading into a wood and candle-lit hallway. Suddenly aware that he was being left alone – willingly wanting to be alone – Pitch suddenly tensed and called out.

"Wait, Halistair-"

"Oh, just call me Hal." Halistair – Hal, he corrected – said, halfway through the door's threshold.

"Hal…" Pitch repeated uncertainly, "This is…I…" Pitch tried to find a proper word to convey just how…_confused_ he was. But nothing was coming to mind. He wasn't used to expressing how he was feeling; the concept of telling someone how he was feeling was completely foreign to him. No one had ever cared to ask, or even considered that he even had feelings. Because god forbid the Boogeyman has a heart…

The mentioned Boogeyman nearly jumped out of his skin suddenly, feeling a very large patch of heat come in contact with his knobby shoulder. He looked up with wide eyes at Hal as the other stood beside him, somehow having crossed the room while Pitch was stuck in his pitiful resolve. His clawed hand resting heavily over his bony shoulder, it was easy for Pitch to feel just how warm the other was, even through his gloves.

"It's okay, Pitch," he said softly, the hand on Pitch's shoulder squeezing reassuringly, "You don't need to worry now. You have no enemies here, only friends. So don't think you need to guard yourself here – I won't allow anyone to bring you harm."

Won't allow…anyone to bring harm to him…

What was this? He didn't understand. This wasn't how things…this wasn't how things _worked!_ This isn't how someone was supposed to speak to the Boogeyman. This wasn't how someone was supposed to look at him, this wasn't how people were supposed to touch him, this _wasn't right…!_*

A sharp, throbbing pain resonated through Pitch's chest, and suddenly his throat felt raw and uncomfortably hot. He didn't understand any of this. He knew there was some kind of ulterior motive to this spirit's actions, but he didn't know what they were – he couldn't _see_ them! And even if he had motives, he wasn't hiding it; he didn't need to hide them – Pitch never experienced the courtesy of people even trying to hide their disdain for him, even if it was to get something from him. It didn't make sense!

Hal's fingers twitched minutely as Pitch's thoughts seemed to spin out of control and crashed around like bumper-cars in his head. The tips of his claws scratched at Pitch's skin just the tiniest bit, harmlessly. But even still, the sensation sent a mental alert to Pitch that coincided with being in possible danger.

Before Pitch could pull himself away from his 'attacker', Hal pulled his hand back and held it limply by his side in a loose fist. Pitch was mildly fascinated to note that the heat from the other's palm still lingered on his skin. It wasn't at all unpleasant, but it was disconcerting at best. But on the other hand, a small part of Pitch – a part he was heavily trying to ignore – suddenly missed that hot touch.

His body still tense, but not about to immediately go into a defensive mode, Pitch watched Hal offer him one last meek smile, before he moved for the door. The smaller spirit grabbed the handle and stepped into the threshold and looked back at Pitch.

"See you in a bit." He finally shut the door gently into its frame, Pitch intently listening as his red-shoed feet slowly vanished down the hallways, along with Shuck's heavy lumbering.

When he was sure he was gone, Pitch couldn't stop himself from letting out an odd noise somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. Clutching the bed sheets, he threw all dignity and pride to the wind and allowed himself to fall back onto the bed. His head was dutifully caught and cradled by the plush pillows, a sudden sense of exhaustion and anxiety washing over him. His chest heaved with each frantic breath he uncontrollably dragged into his weary lungs. He was tired, confused, anxious, _exhausted_…

Wearily, Pitch turned his head to the bedside table and focused on its contents. The set was odd, if not rather curious. The teapot – which rested on top of a warming device to keep its contents hot – was skull-shaped, the handle of which seemed to be designed to look like the arch of a snake's body, while the spout emerged from the skull's nose as the snake's head and neck. There was a single cup on the tray, its design matching to the pot, as well as its saucer.

Beside the tea, there was a plate covered with a white cloth. Ignoring the plate for the moment, Pitch carefully sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He couldn't stop himself from sighing in relief at seeing he still had his pants on – or at least what was left of them. He recalled them being torn terribly at the bottom, but it seemed Hal or someone else had cut away the torn and dirtied bottoms, shortening his leggings to above-knee length. There were still a few holes and cuts along the thighs of his garments, but he was quite fine in knowing he wasn't _completely_ dressed down while unconscious.

He also finally seemed to take note of his now dressed injuries, and where they extended to. His chest – which he had assumed had been so tight from nerves – was all mostly bound firmly in white bandages. There were a few splotches of black, no doubt from where his blood had soaked through, and a few cuts that could only be treated with a thin layer of some kind of ointment. One such cut happened to be on his arm, and he gently dabbed at a bit of the remedy with his other hand. He brought it up to his face and meticulously smelled it.

'_Great Burdock…'_* his brain seemed to automatically pick up the unique scent of the herbal plant. He was quite familiar with it as well; he sustains injuries enough to know the best plants for cuts and preventing infection by heart – it was a bit sad, but necessary.

Sighing, Pitch's eyes wandered back to the tea and snack. Well, if he was going to hang around, he might as well indulge a bit. He knew he couldn't leave – his powers were far too weak to be used even for simple teleportation – it didn't help that he didn't even know where he was, and therefore how far away from his lair he was. He doubted his stay would be appreciated, even though his host said to 'help himself'. It's not like he hasn't heard _that_ one before…

He reached over for the pot and gently took its lid off. A puff of fragrant steam plumed out from under the lid, its warm scent permeating throughout the cozy room. Pitch felt a delightful shudder climb up his spine from the familiar scent.

'_Earl Grey…'_ his favorite. He had to wonder if Hal was aware he was quite fond of the tea, but no sooner perished the thought. It was just a coincidence; there were plenty of people who liked Earl Grey.

The Boogeyman meticulously poured the hot liquid into the generously sized cup. He picked the cup up and deeply inhaled its sweet fragrance. He sighed. It's been literal years since he last drank tea – or anything for that matter. He didn't _need_ fluids to survive, but it was a rare comfort he could not always allow himself. Or rather, what others did not want to allow him…

'_Back to blaming others…'_ Pitch scowled into his cup. Right, this again. Always blaming others, when in fact there is no real person to blame for his nature. He couldn't even blame the Moon – he existed before the damn meddlesome fool. He couldn't blame anyone for his creation. He simply existed. He simply _was_.

But of course, that must mean it's _his_ fault. Never mind that Pitch had no say in whether he was 'born' or not. Never mind he kept others from being stupid or doing even stupider actions to prove their so called 'courage'. Never mind he's kept more people in general safe than the five Guardians have children combined. And never mind he couldn't just change his career with a flick of the wrist.

No, he was just the evil monster hiding under beds and in closets that needed to be brought down and shunned. He was the poster-child for 'the black sheep' in a sense – he didn't fit in anywhere in the word with others. If he tried, it was like trying to put a square into a circular hole. You don't put a square in a circle, and he just so happened to be the only square in a circles-only world of spirits. No, the day he hears one praising or welcoming a monster is the day he dyes his hair pink.

Cringing, Pitch sipped at his drink slowly – it could be poisoned, a part of his brain shrieked. This could be the most complicated ploy to get rid of him yet.

Like he cared at this point…

Pitch downed the whole thing in one gulp, suddenly parched. He had no idea just how thirsty he was, or how badly he had missed the taste and feel of something warm in his stomach. He wanted more of this heated sensation, and quickly fixed himself a second, third, and fourth helping. He considered just drinking straight from the pot, but quickly disposed of the idea. Weak and desperate as he was, he didn't feel like stooping to such an indignant act. Plus, for all he knew, he was being watched right now. Those wisps on the mantle seemed to give him privacy, but they could just be a distraction.

Pitch growled lowly as he set the cup aside and eyed the covered plate. Well, he thought, if he's poisoned, there is no reason to not indulge a bit. Who knows, maybe it'll be a poison apple or something.

He reached over and swiftly removed the cloth. He stared.

_Maybe it'll be a poison apple_, he recalled. And either he was right on the mark, or he was hallucinating.

The shallow bowl of fruit, at any other time, would have fascinated him, and he would have thought their coloring and appearance would make a lovely decorative piece for his parlor. But right now, he had to wonder – was he expected to _eat_ them?

Tentatively, Pitch reached out and poked one of the – literally – black fruits. One wouldn't recognize them right away due to their color, but now that he was really looking, he could tell what they were supposed to be from their shapes; though it didn't settle the unease in the Boogeyman. Some of the fruits were normal – the two bananas, the orange, and an apple were normally colored. But it was those three other fruits he had to question. One was definitely an apple, with its unique shape and the leafed stem. The other, he could immediately say was a small cluster of grapes. And lastly, he wasn't sure, but he guessed it was supposed to be a pomegranate.

All three of them were _black_.

"…this is a joke." He stated, deadpan. Oh the jokes of his given surname he has heard over the years. And they weren't even funny. Black Forest, Black Lake, _Black Forest Cake_, the puns people throw at him didn't even have the decency to be humorous. Now it's fruit?

He picked up one of the dark fruits – the apple – and scrutinized it. He suddenly frowned uncertainly. It couldn't be black because it was rotten; it was hard and ripe, its form unblemished or decayed. It looked like it was picked mere seconds ago. Holding it just under his nose, he tentatively inhaled – it even _smelled_ like a normal apple. Except…there was also something else. Something familiar…

'_Oh screw it.'_ he thought. If it was going to kill him, why not? He's accomplished a low he never even knew he could reach in life, why not put his life on the line of a fruit?

Though instead of outright biting into it, Pitch was going to take a more composed approach. Yeah, he was probably going to die via strange fruit, but he was going to go out with dignity. He saw a small cutting knife by the uncovered bowl and picked it up. Using it to carve out a small wedge from the fruit, he put the rest aside, along with the knife, and scrutinized the apple piece.

Its center, unlike its skin, was pure white. But further down where the fruit's 'meat' would reach for the apple's core, the colors tapered down to dark orange, and then to a very dark red color.

"How odd…" he muttered. Well at least he could say he saw a very strange thing before he died, and it would be his method of such. Not many could say that!

Shrugging, Pitch brought the fruit to his lips and took a small bite out of it. The fruit slid onto his tongue as its flavor and taste burst over his pallet.

_**Fear of snakes…**_*****

Gasping, Pitch dropped the rest of his fruit and pinned himself to the bed's headboard. He clutched his heaving chest, staring wide-eyed at the seemingly harmless wedge that fell to the wooden floor. Pitch swallowed repeatedly, his teeth gnashing uncontrollably. His mouth felt like it was on fire, sensations of pin-prickles tickling his tongue and gums. The tiny bite he had taken from the apple had long since slid down his throat, and it left that same, almost burning sensation in his throat. It _burned_. But when it hit his near empty stomach, a sensation he hadn't felt since the Dark Ages came over him.

Content.

Releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding, Pitch steadily eased his body from its tensely locked-up state. He sighed and wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead – when did he start sweating?

Pitch slumped and groaned as a sudden pang made itself known in his gut. What the bloody hell was this? Was it seriously poisoned? Did he just not eat enough of it to get the job done?

'_I can't even kill myself properly!'_ he internally shouted. That was just…sad…

Pitch suddenly yelped and clamped a hand over his mouth at the sound of someone knocking at the door. He cringed to himself. He, the Boogeyman, does not _yelp_. EVER.

"Hello?" a childish, accented voice called from behind the door. It sounded like a young child.

"Mister Schwarze?" another child, this one clearly female, called.

'_Schwarz?'_ Pitch thought. He hadn't been called that in years. He hadn't been to Germany in quite some time, and people there walked through him as much as anywhere else. So then why…?

The doorknob shifted as the door was tentatively opened. Admitting two small forms – two children – the door shut behind them as a matching pair of gum-pink eyes locked onto him. The children – a boy and a girl, seeming no older than eight – stood side by side, the boy holding a bundle of black fabric.

"Oh!" The girl chirped, "So sorry Mister Schwarz! Jou did not answer, ve got vowrried."*

The boy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, suddenly grinned up at Pitch from the doorway, "Are jou really Der Schwarze Mann?"

Though stunned, Pitch's brain automatically picked up the name the child inquired to him. Der Schwarze Mann, his German title, The Black Man. Moon above, it has been literal ages since anyone, parent or child, has so much as uttered that title.

The girl suddenly frowned and slapped the boy's arm, "Dummy! Don't be rude! Of course he's Der Schwarze Mann!"

"Bah! I'm telling Mister Hal jou hit me!"

"Bloedmann!* You were being rude!"

"Ich bin nicht bescheuert!"

"Ye-huh!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Ye-huh!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Ye-HUH!"

"Nuh-UH!"

"CHILDREN!" Pitch suddenly snapped. The kids snapped their heads to Pitch with wide, awed eyes. Pitch, though slightly unnerved by their pink stares, was too frustrated and confused to relent, "Perhaps, instead of bickering, you can tell me just what you want, why you are here, and what Halistair wants with me."

Pink eyes blinked once, twice. They looked back at each other quizzically, before twin grins spread over their faces. The girl cleared her throat and dusted off her skirt before giving an apologetic bow.

"So sorry Mister Schwarz-"

"Pitch" Said Boogeyman broke in.

"Eh?" the kids inquired.

"Pitch," Pitch repeated, "My name is Pitch. You do not need to refer to me by my German title."

"Peach?" they echoed.

Pitch's brow twitched. He was starting to feel a migraine coming on from all of this frustration.

"Never mind…" he gritted out, "Can you just tell me what you are doing here? Who you are?"

"Oh, ja!" The girl took the black bundle from the boy and trotted over to Pitch's bed. She set it down just by his knees and stood back respectfully, "Zhe spiders finished your clothes. Mister Hal asked us to bring zhem to you."

"Ja! Und now ve can tell people ve met Schw-er, Peach!" the boy broke in.

Pitch did not think his confusion could get any worse. Apparently he was wrong.

"And you two are…?" he tried. This could not get any weirder…

"Oh yes!" the girl suddenly ushered the boy – her brother, Pitch wondered – to her side. Now side by side, she gestured to herself.

"I am Gretel! I am zhe eldest!"* she proclaimed, before gesturing to the boy, "Zhis is mien bruther, Hansel!"

"We're the Trick and Treat Spirits!" both crowed.

'_I take it back, this CAN get weirder…'_ Pitch thought as he stared at the beaming siblings.

To be continued…

**X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X**

_- Headcanon. Spirits can 'claim' a holiday or assume a position a former spirit had as long as they have the qualifications and prove themselves to the rest of the spirit society by making the holiday/event into something amazing. _

_- Harlequin Aprils is my OC. NO STEALING! _

_- Harley here commands an army of giggling Hyenas as his primary helpers. _

_- Hal's primary helpers are Wil-o-wisps. They have also been known to be called Jack-o-lanterns in some cultures!_

_- Man, Pitch, you can just FEEL the universe ripping itself apart from this, can't you? Poor guy._

_- Great Burdock is often used as a medical plant to treat cuts and prevent infection and inflammation. If you find it during a hike, it can be useful if one is injured!_

_- This shall make sense later on~ But can you see the irony of this? Apples? Fear of SNAKES? Get it? I just made a religious reference! 8D *shot*_

_- Hansel and Gretel, being a story originating from Germany, are German! They speak English, but have thick German accents and will sometimes lapse into speaking their native tongue. _

_- Bloedmann = German for 'dumb' or 'stupid'._

_- Ich bin bescheuert = roughly translates to "I am not stupid!"_

_- In the stories, it is not stated who is younger or older, or so I have not found in my research. I just made Gretel the eldest by one or two years here._

_Enjoy!_

_~S~_


	4. Chapter 4

**Burning Sage.**

Ch. 4

_A/N~ And an update on Burning Sage! Woot! I was surprised that some people actually liked this, and actually asked me when it would be updated. Seriously, shocking. But anyways, you get an update! Next up, either Snake in the Grass or Solitude and Darkness – likely SaD since I seem to be on a roll with it. Yay for angst!_

_Thanks to all who have followed and reviewed this story! More to come soon! Oh, and also…_

_**HAL'S PIC IS NOW DONE! **__His profile will be posted soon – it's still in the works – but his image and final design is done and posted on my DA page. See link to my DA in my profile and check him out! His jacket was A BITCH to get down. I think he came out nicely though. So check him out, and __**vote on my poll**__ for which character you want me to do next! _

_**WARNING!**_ For MAJOR OC interactions and OC major role casting. Don't like OCs, don't read.

Enjoy!

Rating: T (for swearing)

Genre: Humor, friendship, romance, hurt/comfort, angst.

Characters: Guardians (all), Pitch, Hal (OC, major), other OCs (minor).

~S~

**X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X**

If ever there was a time Pitch wished _desperately_ for a drink, this was it.

This…could not be _happening_ to him. It was too _strange!_ Sure, he's given humans the occasional not-quite-a-dream, not-quite-a-nightmare-dream, where they're just more weirded out than frightened or happy.* But _damn it all_, he has never felt so off kilter.

The two spirit children – Hansel and Gretel – only continued to stare in wide-eyed awe at Pitch. It was beyond disconcerting, and it was making Pitch feel an all new level of discomfort. But then he felt quite affronted. Unbelievable, he was being intimidated; by _children_ of all things. And for the second time in his life! Well, at least they weren't trying to help extinguish belief in him, but _still_.

He's had quite enough of their staring now – even if it was in admiration, it was just plain _wrong_.

"Um…" eloquent as ever, Pitch. Use words! Real words! "Could I possibly have a moment to myself to…" the Boogeyman gave a pointed look to his new clothes – the perfect excuse for privacy.

"Oh!" the two chirped in perfect unison. Pitch was disturbingly reminded of the chaotic Pan-Dora twins of Greece.*

"Ja! Of course!" Gretel said, grabbing her brother's hand, "Let mister Der Schwarze alone."

"Aww…" the boy whined, but complied with his sister and let himself be lead to the door. But before he was hauled out, he turned around and grinned at Pitch, only elevating the Boogeyman's unease.

"Jou vill let us visit later, yes?" he asked eagerly.

Later…? Just how long was he to stay here? In fact, Pitch would very much like to know where _here_ was!

"Um…s-sure." He said rather lamely.

Hansel suddenly looked like Christmas had come early – Pitch would later cringe at the analogy. The boy and girl giggled to themselves mirthfully before skipping out of the room, closing the door to Pitch's room a little too harshly.

And now he was alone…again.

'_Is this what they would call self-induced isolation…?'_ he wondered. Pitch sighed, his shoulders slumping. He was exhausted again. He didn't want to go to this lunch with Hal, he didn't want to get up, and he didn't want to do anything more than to crawl back under the plush covers of his bed and _sleep forever_.

But no, he couldn't do that. Why give the supposed Halloween spirit a reason to berate or harm him? Granted, no one needed a reason to bring harm to Pitch, but either Hal had some strongly standing morals, or he was waiting for Pitch to slip up and give him a reason to really do something nasty.

Pitch didn't feel like chancing it. And if his getting out of here depended on his manners and attitude, the best way to start off would be to just get dressed and wait for his escort to take him to Hal. After that…well…

'_Cross that bridge when we get there…'_ he thought. Sighing, Pitch stood up and stretched as best he could without opening wounds or shifting his bandages. He cringed visibly as sore muscles and broken skin was drawn taut. He was stiff as a board, and in a mild level of pain (nothing new), but thankfully quite capable of moving and walking.

Turning, the Boogeyman eyed the folded clothing he was given, vaguely wondering what it would look like. Were they designed ridiculously as a means of humiliation? It was black, thankfully, but he could also vaguely make out some indistinguishable gold embroidery under the folds. He certainly hoped Hal wasn't one of those spirits that wished to see him as dressed down as possible. But then again, the folded articles seemed thick enough, so maybe it wasn't what he thought…?

A sound between an annoyed groan and a low whine suddenly left Pitch's throat. Screw it, he was already far past his rock-bottom, what's a ridiculous outfit to add to his growing list of humiliations?

Nodding to himself, Pitch carefully picked up the top layer and held it up. He was visibly shocked to see it was a cloak not unlike his old one. But unlike his rough, smoky cloak, the one he held was soft, almost like silk. He blinked owlishly in shock, not really registering any details just yet. He carefully set the satin material onto the bed and examined the other clothing articles he was given to wear.

He was pleasantly surprised, and quite thankful, to find a new pair of leggings for him in the set; these ones made of another softer material as opposed to his current ones, and boasted a gold embroidery stitched just along the outsides of the legs that shone and glistened eerily when caught in the light. Under the leggings was a flat black box, of which he opened, and found a pair of knee-high boots, and a smaller box. Again caught in a state of shock, he left the small box alone and simply stepped back to stare at the set.

This was…this was _not right_. This was just-

"NO. Stop…" Pitch shut his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, "This is fine. This is totally _fine_. I am just…confused. Yes, confused, and…very, very unnerved. Right…"

Right. Yes, he was just flustered and tired. And likely some food would help calm him down. So maybe that lunch won't be such a bad idea. He just…needed to get dressed is all. That is _all_. He wasn't building a rocket here, he could do this without panicking. He was going to be just fine, _god damn it_.

"Piss up a rope…!" he groaned and, without giving himself a chance to start doubting again, grabbed the leggings and cloak. And still weary of the wisps, Pitch took advantage of the paneled changing screen in the corner of the room, and slipped behind it with his new clothes.

Five minutes later, Pitch emerged from behind the screen and looked down at himself. Although he couldn't fully see how he looked with just his eyes alone, and he looked around the room for a mirror.

Pitch frowned suddenly when he felt a burst of heat against the back of his shoulder. He looked back, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he came face to face with a floating blue ball of fire.

"Bloody hell…!" he rasped, grasping at himself in a long ingrained instinct to protect himself, "What!?"

The wisp, its little arms waving to him, gestured over to the other side of the room and towards a wardrobe, of where two other wisps were floating. Pitch's frown deepened, and he loosened his grip around himself minutely.

"What…?" he asked again, more calmly and cautiously, "I just got new clothes…"

The wisp made a low, echoing crooning sound and gestured again. It turned and made an eerie sound to its fellow wisps. They squeaked back, and both grabbed a single handle of the double-door wardrobe, and pulled. The door swung open with a low creak, and revealed, within the door, a full-length mirror.

"Oh…" Pitch breathed. His frown still in place, he cautiously surpassed the floating wisp and slowly approached the mirror.

As he got closer, his creased brows slowly started to relax and rise as his reflection came into focus. He soon stopped mere feet from the mirror, his brows raised high and his eyes wide in astonishment at his reflection. He stood stalk still as he took in the image that was supposed to be him, new clothes and all.

The cloak was more form-fitted than his old one, and hugged his torso and hips perfectly, before tapering off into a flowing drag along the ground. The bottom flowed like water around his legs, the quiet 'whoosh' of the drag almost like the sound of leaves being dragged on the ground by the wind.

It didn't open in the front like his old cloak, but had a rather high, skintight collar that ended just at the beginning of his jawbone. And unlike his old cloak, this new one had a thin mantle and hood, of which he had failed to notice until he saw it in the mirror. The mantle was fringed in a manner that reminded him of bat-wings, and the cut of it dripped down mid-back in an upside-down triangular shape before tapering into a shorter edge around mid-bicep. It was held in place on his shoulders by a gold gilded bird skull acting as a clasp.

The cloak opened down its front just below his navel, revealing his legs, and tapering down into the gold embroidered drag. The embroidery was thinly sewn in along the bottom, just visible enough to shine and flash eerily once it caught the light. The patterns were elaborate yet simple, ranging from angular and sharp, to willowy and wispy like a visible current of wind. Some of the patterns seemed to resemble angular faces not unlike the ones carved into Jack-o-lanterns – simple yet eerie to look at, especially when caught in the right lighting.

Pitch looked down at his hands, studying the gauntlet styled sleeves that pulled up to the back of his hand in a triangular shape and hooked to his middle finger. Gold lining was sewn into the edges of the sleeves, matching the thicker splashes of gold on his mantle and the fringe of the single open cut of the cloak. The new cloak was sleek and elegant, eerie and sultry, simple yet daring and sharp.*

He looked like a proper Nightmare King…

Swallowing thickly, the Boogeyman was startled back to reality from an all too familiar burning sensation behind his eyes and throat. He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, willing the disgusting _feelings_ away. No, he was not going to do _that_ here where someone could hear him, or worse yet, see him in such a state.

His moment of surprise – and almost elation – forgotten, he stalked back to the bed and eyed the boots and box. The boots were a simple black leather and knee-high, a gold cord acting as the lacings on the inner sides of either boot. They fitted snuggly to his legs, hugging his calves and ankles to show their curvature. Gold lines that matched the patterns on his cloak were stitched around the ankles, while thicker bands of gold circled the top edge of the boots, and the outer soles.

Pitch studied his now boot-clad feet in curious fascination. He hasn't worn actual shoes in quite some time, having chosen to use his shadows as a means of protection for his feet. It was strange, but not at all uncomfortable. Although, he made a point in standing and taking a few experimental steps to get reacquainted with the unfamiliar feeling of the leather footwear. He vaguely noted that the heels were slightly raised, and he wasn't used to the quiet clopping of the hard heels and soles hitting the wooden floor – so unlike his usually soundless footsteps. But they were fairly comfortable and overall felt almost like riding boots.

He sat back down on the edge of the bed and averted his eyes to the small box by his side, suddenly suspicious. Just what could possibly be in there? Could it be something to wear too? Or were the clothes a way to lure him into a false sense of security, and the box held some kind of prank or trick?

No, that's not right. Hal had no way of telling if Pitch would open the little box last or first. And he had checked the cloak and leggings himself; there was nothing wrong with them. In fact, quite the opposite; they seemed to be expertly tailored and conformed just for his figure. So then what could possibly be in the box?

Well…only one way to find out.

Hesitantly, Pitch reached over and picked the box up. It wasn't particularly heavy, and was about the length and width of both of his hands. Setting the box on his lap, he mentally – and physically – prepared himself, slipped his fingers under the lid, and opened it.

It was full of gold jewelry.

**~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~**

After waiting in his room for another ten minutes, Pitch's escort had come to collect him. His 'escort' turned out to be another Wil-o-wisp, but not in the sense he had expected.

He's heard – and even instigated – stories of living scarecrows throughout human history, ever since they were first brought into use. But this was by far the first time he has actually seen a _living_ scarecrow.

Although, it wasn't so much as 'living', as it was 'possessed'.

Now being escorted down a long hallway lined with glowing Jack-o-lanterns and wandering wisps, Pitch chanced a glance at his escort curiously. It looked like a very typical scarecrow; ragged brown shirt, burlap pants, full of hay stuffing and wooden limbs, and a Jack-o-lantern for a head. But inside the Jack-o-lantern, was a familiar blue wisp.

From what Pitch could sense, the scarecrow itself was not alive in any sense of the word; it had no fears, anxieties, worries, or emotions. It was more or less a vessel, a more tangible suit for the wisp that was controlling its movements.* It was so strange, yet unendingly fascinating. Pitch almost literally had to hold himself back from throwing himself at the scarecrow in a near uncontrollable urge to figure out what magic was being used to let the little wisp control the once inanimate object.

Pitch also took a moment to take in his surroundings – or more or less the hallway in which they were walking through. The whole structure of the hallway seemed to be made of wood. The floorboards were a dark, stained and polished wood, and yet the walls looked like a tree was growing around them. They were jagged and gnarled, with even a few owl-holes set with lit Jack-o-lanterns or used to prop lit torches. Masses of melted and lit candles sat on curved branches that grew from the tree-like walls, and little wisps were flying in and out of smaller holes in what he guessed was a tunnel system just for them. Pitch was annoyingly reminded of the elf-tunnels in North's Workshop, but he also had to wonder just how the wisps hadn't set anything on fire yet if the whole structure was made of wood.

But it was…nice, he supposed. The light was low and a soft, glowing orange. Not too bright for his light-sensitive eyes, but not so dark that he would need to use his night vision. It was pleasant, warm even…

'_Don't get too comfortable,'_ he scolded to himself, _'Don't let your guard down.'_

His mind settled – somewhat – Pitch and his pumpkin-headed escort marched on. However, this would be Pitch's first time feeling so…awkward. Another trait he found in the odd scarecrow was that, while in a new body, the wisp inside could not make it talk. The wisps themselves didn't possess the ability to talk, and likely communicated either through their own silent language, or through a mental connection like Tooth and her fairies.

Thinking of the iridescent woman made Pitch cringe and clench his fists in ire. Bloody pigeon…

He was shocked out of his resolve by a very light touch to his shoulder. The Boogeyman threw himself off to the side, and stared wide-eyed at the audacious scarecrow.

"Wh-what!?" he snapped.

The scarecrow merely cocked its head and withdrew its hand. It then picked up the other and pointed ahead of them. Pitch turned his head and, to his surprise, saw a door a few steps off. Unlike the walls and gnarled twists and knots, the door was smooth and polished, intricate pictures carved into the darkly stained wood. Artistically twisted wrought iron bars acted as handles to the double-doors. Pitch's wide eyes roved over the carved etching of what looked to be a huge tree along the door. It was certainly the most complex thing he has seen so far, and it only added on to that eldritch feel the place gave off.

Pitch almost scolded himself, as once again his curiosity had overruled his once sharp senses, and he was startled into attention when the scarecrow opened the door for him. The Boogeyman vaguely wondered how arms made of thin sticks and hay could handle opening such a huge, and likely heavy, door…

"…oh…" well that didn't sound pathetic, he thought.

The door led into what appeared to be a rather large dining room. The walls were smoother than the hallway's, but still carried that eerie, almost growing out of the ground appearance. It was a mostly simple room with floor-to-ceiling windows with wrought iron frames, and matching torches between them. A chandelier that seemed to be growing out of the ceiling, and looking much like an upside-down grown, leafless tree, boasted many dripping candles; all of which were lit. A long table that Pitch guessed would span a line of three of his large Nightmares dominated the room, and sat atop a dark orange, red, and brown long rug stitched with various autumn patterns and symbols. And in the center of the back wall was a large, dark stoned fireplace and mantle. The wall spanning above it was, oddly, bare and almost looked like something had once hung there; perhaps a portrait. But now it only held a few candles and Halloween themed knick-knacks.

The dining room was dimly lit, the largest area of light being the fireplace. And once again, that homey, almost warm feeling settled over Pitch. It was like that cozy, lazy feeling one got on stormy nights, and made one want to curl up with a book. And that smell…

'_It's here too…'_ that smell Pitch could only describe as autumn and spices and burning wood.

Pitch narrowed his eyes. As nice as the atmosphere was, or how homey yet luxurious it felt, he was not going to let his guard down. He made this his goal as he noticed that one of the various chairs flanking the table was not empty.

Hal, seemingly pouring over a book with a narrowed, almost accusing, gaze was oblivious to Pitch's presence. He was so focused on whatever it was he was scrutinizing in the book, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Pitch's escort shuffled in and probed his arm. Pitch felt a small sense of satisfaction in knowing this Halloween spirit wasn't immune to such surprises, but that easily fell away when the scarecrow gestured to him. Hal looked up from his book with wide, bleary eyes. He quickly blinked away his temporary near-sightedness and stood from his seat.

"You made it!" he nearly crowed excitedly. He seemed almost…giddy. It set Pitch on edge.

"Yes, I did…" he said at length. Hal in turn offered a shy nod and removed his hat, placing it up on the edge of the back of his chair. He gestured a clawed hand to the seat to his right.

"Please, have a seat," he said, "The food will be brought out soon."

Pitch blinked owlishly. He wanted Pitch to sit by him? Where he could possibly reach over and drag the smaller spirit into the nearest shadow? So close where he could easily, even in his weakened state, instigate a deep-rooted fear in the other? Possibly _strangle _him for making the Boogeyman feel like such a complete mess of confusion and anxiety?

Pitch contemplated this for a second more, and wondered how rude he would come across as if he just took one of the seats at the far end of the table. But his decision was made for him, as his escort left Hal's side to pull out the mentioned chair for him. He swallowed audibly, the collar of his cloak suddenly tight. But nonetheless, he meticulously, as if looking for a trap, rounded the table and took his seat. The scarecrow pushed his chair in for him and left through a door in the right wall.

And now they were alone.

At least, Pitch was sure they were really _alone_. As far as he was able to tell, all of the wisps were blue, and none of the flames – be it the fireplace or one of the various candles on the chandelier or the table – were blue.*

Now he felt really awkward. He casually folded his hands in his lap and became ridged. Pitch wasn't a conversationalist; no one really talked to him for prolonged periods of time, and he never spoke to anyone without it being in ire, mockery, or rage. So it was sad to say, he was out of practice, and his element. And as much as he liked his silence, he didn't like those long, tense pauses between people. He liked the silence of his own control, not this _thing_ hanging over them like a dark cloud. Was he even expected to start this unspoken conversation?

"How do you like the cloak?" Hal finally asked, pushing his book closed and to the side.

'_Ugh, thank you!'_ Pitch relaxed, but only minutely, before he responded.

"Very much, actually," he said evenly, his fingers unconsciously clutching at the soft fabric, "They are…nice. And I shall endeavor to return them to you without damage."

Hal blinked, his pointed ears twitching, "Return them?"

"Um, yes…?" Pitch offered lamely. He was quite confused when Hal quirked an orange brow at him, and offered a lopsided smile.

"Pitch, you don't need to return them," he said meticulously, "They were a gift, not something just for you to wear for the day."

What…? Pitch, again, felt his once relaxing resolve turn to stone. His fingers opened and closed spastically on the fabric, and he felt his black heart beating violently into his sore ribs.

"A…gift." He said. Hal nodded, his shy smile widening somewhat.

"Yes, a gift." He said.

"Oh…" confliction arose in Pitch, and suddenly he just wanted to look away from the smaller spirit. But those tiger-striped eyes were like hooks that pulled one in, and he couldn't seem to break contact.

But it seemed Hal could, as his candy-corn eyes averted to Pitch's torso.*

"The jewelry looks good on you too." He said suddenly.

The Boogeyman swallowed, but felt his reserved tension for the matter liquefy and vanish. He had been worried about his maybe overdressing, or giving the impression of being above the other with what he picked out.

In the end, Pitch had settled for the more simple pieces. A simple, thin gold belt that dipped in a 'V' below his navel hugged his hips, the chain hanging from his back decoratively. He also picked out a few gold arm bands that clung to his biceps, and one cuff for his left wrist. He had found various earrings in the box as well, and had contemplated piercing his ears. But he soon dropped the consideration and settled for a few simple gold ear cuffs – one thick one in his left ear, and two thin ones in his right.

It took a while for Pitch to realize that Hal had just complimented him. But when he finally seemed to register this, he felt his grey cheeks flush purple. He forcibly pried his gaze away from Hal to try and hide his sudden modesty.

"U-um…thank you." Unbelievable, he was blushing and stuttering in the face of a little brat of a spirit!

But thankfully – or unthankfully – both were distracted by a band of scarecrows entering the dining room with various platters and trays of food. Pitch allowed himself a few moments to breathe and calm himself as they set out the spread. It wasn't a full spread that covered the table – rather it only seemed to only be meant to feed just the two of them, and maybe a third. Which either meant Hal didn't want to waste good resources on Pitch, or he simply had more conserved morals and didn't wish to show off like wannabe royalty. If it was the latter, Pitch silently applauded him.

Two goblets were set before them, with two scarecrows to fill each. Pitch's was filled with a red wine that held a spicy, bitter fragrance. Hal's however, was filled with a strange orange-yellow liquid from a decanter, and smelt sweet and hot.

'_Cider…?'_ he thought with a small frown. Should he be suspicious that he had gotten a rather well-aged wine, while his host took a sweet-drink?

"You do not drink?" he asked as politely as possible and – he hoped – without accusation.

"Hm? Oh, uh…" Hal seemed to be embarrassed, "I don't hold my alcohol well. Plus, I'm a fire elemental, and that usually doesn't mix well with alcohol."

"Oh…" Pitch said. He seemed to be saying that a lot now. But whether or not Hal's excuse checked out was unknown. Pitch will, however, openly admit it is not a good idea to give alcohol to fire elemental spirits. The Great Chicago Fire of 1871* was a good testimony to this.

Hal handed off his book to an attending scarecrow and dismissed them, once again leaving them alone.

"Well, dig in." he said, starting to fill his own plate with the offered food.

Pitch took a moment longer to do so, and when he did, it was more out of making himself look polite than an actual desire to eat. His stomach had been pained the whole time he had been here, and it only seemed to get worse when he took a bite of that odd fruit. And although he highly doubted any of it was poisoned, he didn't want to chance it.

But on the other hand, Hal had made every attempt to make Pitch feel comfortable and welcome; first in treating his injuries, the new clothes, the room, and now feeding him. Whether it was an honest effort at spirit's tradition or not, Pitch owed the other in at least attempting to show he appreciated the other's efforts.

So he settled for a small portion of vegetables and a few lean pieces of turkey – he didn't dare even consider the roast duck. Such a fatty bird would likely make him sick if nothing else. He wasn't even sure if he would be able to hold down the wine given to him. He was grateful the scarecrows had left Hal and him some water as well as the stronger drinks.

Pitch meticulously placed a small cut of a steamed carrot in his mouth – the taste nearly overwhelmed him, but it was very good nonetheless. Each bite of food was becoming less and less shocking as his sense of taste and smell woke up from their dormant states. And within a couple minutes, Pitch was actually enjoying the meal. He looked out of the corner of his eye down at the smaller spirit to his left, and found Hal also indulging in the food. But Pitch had to raise a brow slightly, as he noticed that the other didn't even remove his oversized gloves to eat. It all looked rather cumbersome handling such delicate looking utensils with such comically large gloves. Was there something wrong with his hands…?

He minutely shook his head, and set his cutlery aside. No, as nice as all this was, and as grateful as he was to Hal for his hospitality, this charade had to end.

"Hal, I-"

"Pitch, I-"

Both paused and looked to one another in surprise. Pitch looked quite startled for both having spoken at once. Hal, on the other hand, looked quite amused and cleared his throat.

"Ah, sorry, you first." He offered.

"Uh, n-no, I…" Pitch sighed, and seemed to deflate. He caught himself fiddling with his fork, and immediately brought his hands down onto his lap instead. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it with dignity and without fidgeting _damn it_.

"Halistair-"

"Hal."

"Erm, right…" Pitch cleared his throat and, giving one last prayer to whatever god would hear him, began to speak.

"Hal, look. Obviously you and I both want something, and either I'm the only one who can give it to you, or I was just convenient. Either way it doesn't really matter to me, but I would rather we just put out there what it is we want and get it over with as painlessly as possible. You don't need to put on airs for me, but I appreciate the effort – it is certainly much more than what others have given when they want something from me. But I will say this; I am not an all-powerful entity anymore, so whatever it is you want, I will attempt to get it as a boon for helping me, but I won't make promises."*

Taking in a deep breath, Pitch straightened his back and waited. He said what he wanted to say, and if Hal held any of the patience he exercised during their whole meeting, he'll drop the façade and simply get down to business without a hitch or any pain on Pitch's part. But if he was anything like a typical fire element…well…he simply hoped his pain tolerance hadn't waned over his stay.

But nothing came. No attack, no verbal assault, no scalding words. The food didn't suddenly turn to ash and vanish, and he wasn't feeling Hal moving to be in a more dominant position over Pitch.

The Boogeyman decided to be a bit daring and slowly slid his forward gaze to his left and down to the shorter spirit. He nearly balked at the other's expression.

Hal did not look like the three things Pitch usually saw in spirits when he caught onto their facades. He didn't look angry that he was found out and had his 'play time' cut short. He didn't look bored or affronted for having his plans uncovered. And he didn't look like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. No remarks about his supposed intelligence were said, nor were any biting insults.

Instead, there was stunned shock. Hal's expression was made all the more comical with the fork still in his mouth, his eyes wide and staring up at Pitch as if he expected the other to grow a second head. But Pitch would not be perturbed, and instead waited with bated breath as Hal regained himself.

"What…" the red-head removed the fork from his mouth as he continued to gape at Pitch, "Are you talking about?"

Pitch blinked owlishly back at Hal, suddenly even more apprehensive than he originally was. Hal didn't seem the least bit upset or insulted with Pitch's words, but he knew many spirits could be damn good actors – he was one of those spirits. Rather he seemed honestly and truly bewildered and caught off guard. Pitch couldn't even feel smug for finally getting in a few points for turning the tables on the spirit; he looked too confused and stunned to be faking.

"You…" he started, uncertain and tense once more, "Want repayment for saving me…right?"

Hal suddenly frowns deeply, pupils contracting into thin slits. For a moment, Pitch is startled and wonders if he insulted the other. It wouldn't surprise him; Hal doesn't seem nearly as petty as most other spirits when around him. Acting or not, he just didn't have that edge to him. He couldn't sense any fear of being found out from the other, but this only served to further confuse Pitch.

"I…I apologize, but it really only seemed like the most plausible explanation as to why-"

"Wait, hold on…" Hal suddenly said, holding a hand up. Pitch clamped his mouth shut, watching as Hal turned in his seat to face Pitch properly. He settled one large hand on the table, and the other in his lap as he regarded Pitch with a hard, critical stare.

"Are you trying to tell me that you think the only reason I saved you was to gain some kind of reward for it?" he asked meticulously, yet firmly. He left no room for arguments or excuses; a feat for the otherwise young looking spirit.

Pitch was unperturbed though, and held himself firmly without any sign of submission. He was tired of this charade, and he was not going to walk around eggshells anymore.

"That's what the majority of others have expected, so yes." He said. His gaze never left Hal's, and he was started to see the clawed hand on the table suddenly spasm violently. The clawed tips suddenly dug into the wood of the table, creating short, deep lines as they curled slightly.

"You are saying that, in past situations, should another fellow soul provide something for you, they expect a favor in return." It wasn't a question, despite the wording.

And again, those claws curled and created nasty gashes in the table. Pitch would have cringed at the abuse to such a nice table if he weren't wary of those claws finding their way into his skull. He could faintly see – or rather smell – smoke rising from the gashes, and tightened his hands on the fabric of his cloak.

"That's the gist of it, yes," he said, "I'm not exactly well-loved among the spirits, surely even you know that."

Those eyes narrow, but the pupils widen slightly in an almost mortified fascination. They studied Pitch meticulously, and the Boogeyman felt suddenly self-conscious and wary.

"Why, exactly?" Hal suddenly asked.

"Why what?" was the confused reply.

"Why are you not 'well-loved' among others? What is so awful about you that I can't even lend a helping hand when you would have been killed without being expected to gain something from you?"

Hal was a young looking spirit – perhaps around Jack's physical age, or maybe in his early 20s. And yet somehow, he managed to sound and act like a stern yet compassionate spirit of an ancient age. Pitch shuddered briefly; he not only had Samhain's eyes, but his scrutinizing frown too.

"…because I am the Boogeyman." He answered softly.

A pause.

Neither said anything the whole minute they took up staring at one another. One a set of candy-corn eyes scrutinizing the taller man before him, and the other's full of apprehension and resignation. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire behind them. The long minute passed, and soon became two, then three. Pitch was starting to contemplate making a break for the door – he wasn't easily frightened, but he was definitely uncomfortable right now.

"And?" Hal's voice suddenly broke the silence, nearly toppling Pitch from his chair.

The Boogeyman composed himself and had to mentally force himself to release his death grip on his cloak. He blinked owlishly at Hal.

"Um…and what?" he asked.

"Why else are you so despised?" Hal asked firmly, "A title does not make a person or show one's absolute personality."

'_Odd, I said that in my early years before I just gave up trying…'_ Pitch thought.

"That…there is no other reason," he said, frowning, "I'm the Boogeyman, I spread fear and darkness, what other reason do you need?"

Once again, a pause settled over them. And quite frankly, Pitch was getting quite sick of these heavy, tense silences that seemed to suffocate and smother him. He really just wanted to go ho-…did he even have a home anymore? Have his Nightmares completely decimated his cool, dark sanctuary after his rescue? Would he have to start over from scratch?

He was brought out of his newly discovered dilemma by the smell of more smoke. He startled slightly when he realized that a good portion of the wood Hal's hand was on was now scorched black and glowing with cinders. The Boogeyman nearly wanted to slip under the table when he noticed the plumes of smoke leaking from Hal's mouth and nose. What the hell was he going to do!?

"That's _it_?" Hal hissed like a cobra, the dark smoke sifting between his teeth and over his tongue. Pitch had a moment of small humor at imagining Toothiana's horror at seeing Hal 'smoking' like he was.*

He could not answer though from the tension wracking his body, and so only nodded curtly at the other.

Hal only seemed to become more aggravated at the answer, his claws now digging a full inch into the chair and the black gloves shedding ashes and cinders like lizard's skin.

"You mean to tell me, that just from _doing your job_, people have scorned and ostracized you?" he growled, "_Just_ because you inevitably and without choice gained powers of fear and shadows?"

What was with all these questions? It was like he _wanted_ Pitch to tell him that, no, he wasn't hated because he controlled fear and darkness, and seemed to almost expect Pitch to say he actually kicked puppies for a living. It was like he wanted _validation_.

He shook his head, "I'm going to be straight with you, Hal. I am _hated_ and _loathed_ for my powers and element, and overall I am simply disliked because I cause such negative influences in the world when I try and take just a tad more than I should."

This was all true, if a bit creatively worded. And Pitch did often go overboard and somehow make even more enemies when he hits a breaking point. The recent fight with the Guardians was his most recently broken straw.

But he was just so sick of being walked through and ridiculed for it! He was tired of being alone and sneered at, tired of just _living _without _existing._ Was it really so much to ask for a passing glance!? A good conversation? An acknowledgement above a glare, an insult, screams of terror, or a Moon damned attack on him!?

_Crack!_

Pitch startled, and on sheer instinct, jumped back and out of his chair and took up a fireplace poker. He assumed a highly defensive posture with the poker held between him and what his mind and body immediately registered as a threat. His hands gripped the wrought iron poker in a death grip, knuckles white in an almost familiar sword-hold.

Hal, opposite him, stood stalk still. A large, burnt chunk of the table he had _somehow_ broken off sat partially crushed in his clawed hand. The large gap in the table looked like a shark had been taken to it – a shark that breathes fire. The charred outlines flared prominently against the abused wood, and the chunk in Hal's hand became nothing but a flaking lump of charred black wood.

Pitch swallowed thickly, feeling the little bit of food he ate starting to rise into his throat. He held no illusions on the situation; he knew he stood no chance against the slighter spirit in his state. He was as good as dead if he tried to take Hal on with just a poker, and what little bit of power he had left. Hal barely did anything, and yet he still somehow managed to burn and rip out a chunk of _very_ hard and sturdy wood with just a single hand.

And yet, when it seemed to dawn onto Hal what had happened, and the stance Pitch was assuming, he got a reaction that wasn't even at the bottom of his expectations list.

Hal's cheeks flushed a bright amber-orange color, and he dazedly dropped the chunk of wood.

"O-oh god, I am _so _sorry!" he sputtered, seemingly flailing in lace as he scrambled for some semblance of reassurance, "N-no, no! I'm not mad at you, I'm not going to attack you! I-I just…uh…just, uh…!"

This was…this was _very _strange. Wait, no, not strange. There just wasn't an accurate word in existence to describe how utterly confusing and downright _weird _the situation was. Probably he or someone else will think of one in a century or two but _wow that wine was looking very much appealing right now.* _

'_What…?' _it was all Pitch could mentally – and physically – muster up.

A sort of awkward stare-off ensured between them – both with stunned and cautious expressions. Though Hal looked more like he was trying to placate a skittish animal. Pitch just felt like he was preparing to fight and animal off – a very vicious one.

A pause ensured, and was only broken when Hal's fingers twitched. His eyes seemed to dilate again all of the sudden, and some of his tension drained with a sigh through his nose.

Pitch startled and held the poker aloft when Hal's hand suddenly shot out and grabbed his wine glass. He watched, morbidly fascinated – if not apprehensive – as Hal picked the goblet up and drained it into his mouth in one swift motion. He was oddly reminded of the many shot-enthusiasts at local bars. Or the parents when their kids tell them they've been suspended from school for some reason. Either way, Hal seemed almost…stressed.

The goblet empty, Hal set it back down on the table with a much calmer hand. He released a weary sigh that seemed to cause his whole body to shudder like a candle flame in a light breeze. And with a sudden slumping of shoulders, Hal stood from his chair and brushes away some wrinkles from his coat. He faced Pitch suddenly with an unreadable expression, and placed his hands limply at his sides.

"I am not going to hurt you, Pitch," he said, his voice even and almost mechanical, "I swear, I'm just a bit…"

He made an indistinguishable hand gesture, a strange noise between a groan and a sigh vibrating in his throat. Still weary, Pitch could clearly sense how _worn _the other sudden was. This confused him deeply. What had caused Hal to become so exhausted? Their conversation? The revelation of Pitch's overall standing point in their world? He doubted it…

The Boogeyman frowned, but seemed to relent slightly. Trusting his instincts – and _only_ his instincts – he lowered the poker to point to the floor, but did not release it. He made sure his voice and stance was steady and left no room for arguments, yet kept at a submissive monotone.

"I do not understand…" he said evenly.

To his surprise, Hal let out a bitter chuckle, "No, I should think you don't…"

Another sigh, and Hal rubbed his temples – an interesting image, considering the size of his fingers, and the sharp claws. He seemed to be thinking, judging by the contemplative frown on his white face. Pitch noted how his white teeth nibbled on a black lower lip, and his brows seemed to knit in concentration. He would have found it enduring if he wasn't so unclear on the situation.

Hal suddenly seemed to perk up, and his frown seemed to vanish faster than a blink. He looked at Pitch and seemed to contemplate him for a moment, cocking his head to one side. He blinked slowly, just like a cat, and picked up his hat. He took a couple steps closer to Pitch – far enough to let the taller man enough room, yet close enough to get his intentions across.

"Pitch, I think I should take you out to see my home." He said. He almost sounded like the parent about to give their child 'the talk'. Pitch almost wanted to scream.

"And why, exactly…?" he asked carefully.

Hal only offered a small, shy smile to the shade, and extended a clawed hand in invitation.

"Because I think you're going to like what I have to offer here."

To be continued…

**X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X**

_A/N~ Phew, finished this up nicely at my local library! So you can thank it for cranking this out if you are enjoying it! 8) please enjoy and review! _

_1.) Lucid dreams. Some of the sh** that goes down in those is just WOW...QwQ' you ever have a dream of your cat telling you in a Russian accent to, 'Kill zee dog'? I have. I sh** you not. It is FREAKY._

_2.) Minor OCs of mine, and descendants of Pandora. They're chaotic twins who guard Pandora's box._

_3.) I want to draw this SO bad, but fic piles are the worst life-dictators ever...! XD_

_4.) Hal has hoards of scarecrows and other such things in his home, and only his wisp can control and use them - ergo 'possessed' scarecrows. The more you know!_

_5.) All of Hal's wisps are blue in color, but can sometimes be red, orange, yellow, or even green or pink - it all depends on their mood. Reds and orange and yellows usually mean aggression, while other cooler colors resemble more positive emotions. Dark blue usually resembles depression or sadness. _

_6.) I call Hal's eyes candy corn for two reasons - one, it's ironic since he's a Halloween spirit and candy corn is a staple to it. And two, that is his eye color/pattern. In his pic you will see he has white pupils, orange irises, and yellow sclera almost like a cat's. Yay for candy eyes!_

_7.) This was an actual event. Look it up and see the effects of fire spirits and alcohol. It ain't pretty people._

_8.) translation - I know you want something from me just like everyone else who has graced me with their oh so illustrious presence, so please just tell me so I can go home and please don't hurt me._

_9.) Ha ha ha...lookie...I made a pun. *SHOT* though but seriously, smoking is bad for your overall health, and your teeth._

_10.) Pitch, honey, drinking is not the answer to everything. Only for those horrible one-night stands, when a girl breaks up with you, or she tells you she's pregnant._

_Review please!_

_~S~_


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